Robert
by Shrinking Heliotrope
Summary: Sometimes names have more meaning than they were intended. Bruce struggles with his name and identity. Bruce-centric. Trigger Warning: mentions of abuse and suicide.


What am I updating after being AWOL for months? Why yes, yes I am XD

Bruce-centric bit on the power of a name.

Just gonna be clear here, because I don't want to trigger anyone:

**TRIGGER WARNINGS: child abuse, domestic abuse, thoughts and attempts of suicide.**

I hope you enjoy it, and please tell me what you think! :-D

* * *

Robert.

That was the name written on his birth certificate.

Robert Bruce Banner.

On legal records, on the tests he took in middle school.

Robert Banner.

On his high school diploma.

Robert Bruce Banner.

His father had called him "Robert".

"Stand up straight, Robert."

"Don't be such a girl, Robert."

"Shut up, Robert!"

Robert. Robert. Robert.

Every one, every time. After a while, it started to feel like being stabbed again and again. Like he was a pincushion that someone was jabbing needles into, over and over and over.

Robert.

How he hated the name. How he hated _his_ name.

Nicknames didn't soothe him.

"Rob" didn't fit. "Bob" sounded like some guy who worked in an office cubicle for thirty years straight and then woke up one morning to find that he'd never had a life. "Bert" sounded like someone's rich great-uncle.

Robbie. Bobby. Bertie.

Ugh. None of them felt right; it was like wearing someone else's skin. And though he definitely wished to be someone else, he didn't want to do it by stealing their name, their skin, their life.

Using a fake name, an alias, was a bit shivery to him, but it was only temporary. He knew in his heart who he really was-or, he thought he did.

But to consciously start to think of himself as one of those names- to think of himself as Rob or Bobby or Bert or David or any of the other who-knows-how-many names he's borrowed over the years- it felt disgusting and wrong.

It wouldn't be an escape. To be Rob or David was not to stop being Robert Bruce Banner. It was wearing cover-up over a scar.

Cover-up can be wiped away too easily.

It was his mother who proved a solution, though until he was an adult it could not take effect in the rest of the world.

But she called him "Bruce", and he liked that, very much. It was a perfect fit, like a Cinderella-trying-on-shoes moment.

It was much better than "Robert".

His father still called him Robert. On official documents, "Robert" was printed traitorously before the more fitting "Bruce" until he could do anything about it legally.

But his mother called him Bruce, and if he had had any friends they probably would have called him Bruce, too. He might have been penned into their address books as "Bruce Banner" with his telephone number below, or he might have signed the yearbooks before graduation with some stupid platitude or other and his own name, "Bruce Banner" written with a flourish and a way for them to keep in touch even though they probably had no intentions of using it.

When he left home, left behind the hideous ruins of his childhood, the ghosts and corpses and blood-spattered paneling and shredded carpets and no true home at all, and went to college, he introduced himself as "Bruce" and if awkwardness came up he would make some story or other about having the same name as a family member so they called him by his middle name for clarity's sake.

He had introduced himself to Betty as "Bruce", and it was as though she understood. Elizabeth was her name, _Elizabeth Ross_ which Bruce had thought to be lovely and elegant, but for some reason she preferred the old-fashioned-almost dowdy-sounding "Betty" over more common diminutives like "Liz" or "Lizzy" or the old-fashioned "Eliza" or the sweet quaint "Beth".

But he respected her choice and enrolled her in his memory as "Betty", even if he might have secretly fancied in his mind laughing "Liz!" in a pretend-scolding voice or whispering "Beth" in her ear.

But that couldn't be. It could never be, never, not now or ever ever ever. Because of the Other Guy. Damned Other Guy, keeping him from even the simplest and most carnal of pleasures, from the difficulties and fruitful rewards of a romantic relationship.

He loved Betty, he did love her, but they could never truly have a life together. Because the Other Guy would always be lurking there in the dark corners of his mind, and he would always be on guard, paranoid, weighed down by the dreadful "what if"s-

What if he lost control? What if he hurt her? What if, what if, _what if_?

And what if Betty wanted what he could not give her? What if she wanted to have children? Adoption is not for everyone. Other options might not suffice. And then suppose he hurt the child? He didn't even know how to be a father, anyway. He'd had no example. No example fit to follow, no example he cared to think of or talk about or acknowledge.

And not just sexual intimacy- but the emotional intimacy he was so afraid of sharing, the barriers so carefully laid that he could not bear to have breached. He probably wouldn't even be able to handle it. With his luck he would flip out and run.

Run and run and run and run and run.

He was always running. Always, always running.

Running from the destruction. Running from the fear. Running from himself.

Running from Robert.

But Robert always caught him, didn't he?

Come back here, Robert. Don't run away like a coward, Robert. I killed your mother, Robert, but it's your fault.

I'm going to kill you, too, Robert, and there's nothing you can do, Robert, except run. But you'll never escape, Robert. You can run, but I will always catch you. I can always find you, because no matter how many names you steal, you will always be Robert.

Such were his fears, those fears that governed his actions for he didn't know how long anymore. Softened by the word "caution", and by the desire which at its core was truly selfless of helping other people, he blew across the land with Zephyr and laid low as well as he knew how. It wasn't very hard; he'd always been sort of shy and mild when he wasn't being threatened. Of course he knew that it was wonderfully similar to some maimed wild animal in a sanctuary, watching everyone warily through the iron chain-links which were intended to protect them but instead served as a barrier to keep him safe from them, from the world that he didn't fit into. It wanted to tear at him, destroy him, eat him. A "dog-eat-dog world"? No. Oh, no. The world congregates and eats you, you who do not fit in. Because otherwise it would eat itself. You are a distraction, a misdirection, you Robert. But still this is no less than you deserve.

It's your own fault, Robert.

And with this in mind, he did not want to be found. He wanted to disappear. The only way to cease being Robert was to cease being. But the Other Guy had other plans. And the Other Guy was too strong for him to resist. It wasn't fair; he had never asked to become a parasite motel, and now he had to let _it_ run _him_?

But if he threw himself into a river, the Other Guy learned how to swim. If he tied a leather belt around his neck, the Other Guy was strong enough to pluck it away as though it were a spider's web. He put a bullet in his mouth but the Other Guy spit it out.

There was no escape now. Truly, he was trapped, trapped inside a prison named _Robert_, and he would never be able to get away.

He hit rock bottom, and the horror fell on him with crushing weight, pushing and squeezing hard enough to burn, to make him want to scream and claw at his arms, but never hard enough to kill him. It let that one tiny cruel ray of hope shine down, before plunging everything into darkness once again.

Eventually there was no further to go. He had touched the lowest depths and could not fall from the ground. He could not even give up anymore. He gave up on giving up, and remembering his compassionate wishes of helping someone, at least, since he couldn't help himself, he went back out again. He tried to forget; or if not forget, to forgive himself for the weakness and indolence. Everyone gets depressed sometimes. He was intelligent; certainly he knew that. And mental illness is difficult to deal with, though nothing to be ashamed of. Other people were able to bounce back all the time, after all, so why could not he?

And he did. Sort of. In his own Bruce-not-Robert way. Because he had tried Robert's way, and it hadn't worked. Robert only knew his father's way. Bruce was still coming up with his own.

And then that strange day, when the lovely red-headed assassin paid a little girl to trick him. She was afraid of him, sometimes a little and sometimes a lot, but he found it both amusing and strange that she kept coming back to him, so to speak. As though she were trying to be kind to him. He did not trust kindness; and certainly not from _her_. But the sentiment behind her efforts was enough for him, and anyway he supposed that SHIELD really did need his help, and that if he could help someone in any way, then it would be cruel to refuse.

So he agreed.

Natasha Romanoff was how she had introduced herself. Steve Rogers. Tony Stark the genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist. Clint Barton. Thor the alien demigod prince, or at least that was what he could gather from a series of confusing conversations across an awkward dinner table.

They were.

Well.

If he had not known better, he would have wanted to say that they were like _him_. That they were "Robert" too. Which, of course, was not the case.

Not Tony who obsessively, manically designed those amazing suit models. Not Clint rigging up "getting to know you" pranks from the air vents. Natasha stabbed a knife into her favorite sofa. Steve had daily scuffles with Tony's multitudes of gadgets. Thor tended to break things when he was angry, regardless of what may have been on the table that he just flipped over.

But they weren't really like him. They didn't lose control and turn into enormous green rage monsters. They didn't kill their own mothers. They didn't run away again and again and again. They may not have been…_normal_, exactly, but they were not nearly as bad as Bruce.

They couldn't be. No one could be. No one could be as bad as Robert-masquerading-as-Bruce Banner. Robert-wishes-he-was-Bruce Banner.

Thor, Son of Odin, was the only name he had ever had and ever would have. "Tony" was a legitimate shortening of "Anthony" and was appropriate for both name and name-bearer. "Nat" was an affectionate shortening between the friends whom Bruce often suspected of being more-than-just.

Only Bruce tried to hide the truth, the truth of his name and identity. Only Bruce tried so desperately to be what he was not, would never be, could never be. Honesty is not something very often observed in assassins, but Bruce was willing to bet all the money he didn't have that even Clint was more authentic that he was. Plain old white-bread Steve couldn't keep a secret if he wanted to. Only Bruce was the liar, the cat among the pigeons, the wolf in sheep's skin.

Stealing skin. Always stealing skin. Always stealing and running and hiding. That was all Robert knew, wasn't it?

It may have been, or it may have not been, but it was what he was used to, and what he did. Day after day.

He got to know them better. The Avengers. That was what they were, wasn't it? _Who_ they were. Tony had some snappy remark for their roll call. Natasha said that they were six armed psychopaths let loose from a mental hospital. Clint laughed and suggested that they were the Goonies, leading to intense confusion from Steve and Thor, who probably thought of them as soldiers and warriors, respectively. Bruce said nothing, because he was too broken-hearted that they thought they knew him, they thought he belonged, but he was only just pretending. Just lying to them, they who were good enough to take him in like some stray feral cat half-dead and mangy. Feed him once and he'll come back for more, Robert. Don't feed stray cats. Let them die in the streets where they belong.

He must have—he must have done something wrong, somewhere. He knew it wasn't a good idea to drink alcohol. He knew it wouldn't end well. But he'd thought the danger was losing control of rage, not losing control of his mouth.

After a particularly grueling fight, everyone was worn out. Even Thor, the seasoned warrior-prince, had a grave look on his face. Natasha's skin looked whiter than usual. Clint put on his sunglasses and kept them on well after dark. Tony's usual smirk was fighting to keep its hold on his face. Steve had the stern, 1940s-father-trying-to-keep-control look again, the one that made Bruce nervous, though he was afraid to say so.

And when Tony started bringing glasses and bottles and tumblers, started pouring drinks generously, no one had the fortitude to refuse. Clint knocked back too fast to taste anything, and Thor put the remnants of Tony's alcoholism to shame by putting away all the beer the refrigerator could furnish, after he had already emptied out a bottle or three of Bruce didn't _know_ what, and didn't _want_ to know what.

All he really remembers, before everything turned weird, was laughing that he wouldn't "be taking care of any of you in the morning, so don't come crying to me", and Tony slapping him genially on the shoulder and saying, "Have another, Brucey, you're still too sober!"

And against all logic, Bruce _did_ have another, and another, and then another. And he started talking. Nonsense, it felt like nonsense slipping off his tongue, swishing around in his mouth and swirling with lime and good-burning alcohol, and he just let it all fall out of his mouth like some big drooling dog.

"I'm such a Robert," he'd probably slurred, "I'm such a freak. Why do you guys put up with me? A lying stray cat. That's me, Robert the Lying Stray Cat. You should know better than to feed stray cats." And this was so immensely funny that his head fell back against the arm of the sofa with a drunken chortle.

But at the silence, fear started to creep up his neck, dragging sobriety up with it. He turned to look at them. The five now-familiar faces stared back.

"What do you mean, Bruce?" Tony said, trying to make a joke of it. "Shut up, dude, you're our friend." He turned to the others and jostled the coffee table a little with his foot. "Uh, a little back up here?"

Thor's good-natured joviality kicked in first.

"Of course you are our friend and Shield-Brother. How silly to think you are not wanted! You act as though we are not all of us equals," and he laughed a little at the idea, revealing his truly kind heart, despite his arrogance and hot temper, and making Bruce feel all the worse.

"If you're a stray cat, then we're _all_ stray cats. All of us animals huddling under the same bridge. You're as good as any of us, Bruce-honey." And Natasha only called someone "honey" if she were drunk or if she truly liked them and they were alone together, and if she said it like one word, then you were an especial favorite of hers.

There was his out. He could have dropped it there. Dropped it and pretended it didn't happen, dropped it and pretended that he believed them.

But he didn't. And he had enough liquid courage left in his system to throw caution into the wind and say,

"No. I'm not as good as any of you. I'm a liar. I would say that I've lied to you about everything except my name, but I've been lying about that, too. I'm—I'm—a coward. A liar. A murderer. It's my fault. I can never escape it. But I don't deserve to."

The silence was deafening. A ringing sound was starting to swell in his hears, and he could feel his heart rate picking up despite his attempts to steady himself.

"What do you mean, lying about your name?" Steve finally said. "We've seen your file, you know. It says "Bruce Banner", right there with all your stats. Not that we were trying to pry. But it's all there. What do you mean, Bruce?"

Bruce shook his head.

"Not Bruce. Not Bruce. Robert. My name is Robert. That's the name my father gave me. That's what he always called me. Robert. Robert. Robert. I can pretend to be Bruce, or David or Tom or Larry-Moe-Curly or- but I'm not any of those. I'm Robert, even though I tried to run away from it."

His eyes were hot, his nose was beginning to run, his glasses fogged up a little.

They were silent once more. Bruce wished for a gun.

"Jarvis," Tony called out suddenly, startling them all.

"Yes, sir?"

"Pull up Dr. Banner's file. Put it—oh, project it there, would ya? Thanks."

Jarvis replied, "Very good, sir", and Bruce's file obligingly appeared.

There in the digital font was printed "Dr. Robert Bruce Banner", and Bruce flinched to see the name written, as he always did.

"Uh, Bruce? Looks like you weren't actually lying about your name. So if you could just, like, clarify on what that outburst was, we'd all like to get the emotional part out of the way as soon as possible, because I'm pretty sure that we have the collective empathy of a doorknob, even though we really _do_ give a damn about you."

Amongst outraged refutations, Bruce suddenly spoke up,

"Wait. You—you saw that. Why…? Why aren't you kicking me out on my ass or something? Why are you ok with this?''

"Kicking you out!" Steve looked shocked at the idea. "Why would we do that? Why shouldn't we be ok with what your first name is, or your middle name is, or what you prefer to be called? It doesn't make a difference. You're still _you_. And _you_ are our friend and teammate."

"Yeah, Bruce, I'm like 98 percent sure that Shakespeare totally covered this like half a millennium ago. 'Everything's coming up roses,' or something."

"You're drunk, Tony. I'm pretty sure you mean, 'That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet'. And he is right, Bruce, even if he is too sloshed to say it right. We don't care what your name is. _You_ make the name, the name doesn't make _you_."

"Oh yeah, I was thinking about _Gypsy_. I knew there was another reason we kept you around. Hot _and_ smart," Tony teased Natasha, shifting to rest his legs across Bruce's.

"But— " Bruce stuttered, "But I _lied_ to you!"

"Lying ain't a crime, Brucey-boy. I mean, it's not recommended. It's particularly unhelpful during team activities. But you can do what you want, man. You don't have to tell us everything. If you don't feel like sharing, then you don't have to kumbaya with us."

"For god's sake, Bruce," Clint finally burst out, "You act like we're all open books or something! I mean, yeah we try to be as honest with each other as we can be. But we don't broadcast everything about ourselves. Geez, you act like a guy can't have a few skeletons in his closet, or something. You think we should be on surveillance?"

"Natasha took all the surveillance equipment out of the communal showers downstairs," Tony helpfully volunteered.

"I…" Bruce didn't know what to say. "I don't want to lie to you, though. I don't want to keep secrets… I don't wanna hide anymore. I don't wanna run away from myself anymore. I don't want to feel like I need to escape. I just want to like where I am. I want to _belong_," and his voice caught on the sacred word, and years of pain blurred his vision and streamed down his face.

"I promise that you can tell us anything, and we will never betray your confidence. I swear to you upon my honor that anything you may wish to tell us will remain with us and with us only," Thor said in a kind but serious manner, with all the gravity that the honor-based society he grew up in required.

Natasha said nothing, but reached over to brush some of the tears away from Bruce's cheek.

"Go ahead," Steve smiled with such genuine benevolence that Bruce wanted to really, truly trust him, trust all of them. "We're all ears."

"My first name is Robert," he finally said, "and it's what my father always called me. He—" here he hesitated, wondering if it was really wise to go on. But Tony's earnest gaze and unspoken understanding encouraged him. "He was abusive. Physically. To my mother. And to me."

Each fragment hurt as it came out, like pulling teeth one by one with no anesthetic. After a few moments, he was able to collect himself and go on, and then, it all came out like a broken dam, all the secrets and pain and doubt and fear and horror and _Robert_ broke through the dam he had built in his heart and flooded the room.

"He always called me 'Robert'. When he was scolding me, or beating me, or beating my mother. 'Look what you made me do, Robert'. That's what he always said. He said that if I had been a good son, none of it would have happened. He wouldn't have knocked out three of my mother's teeth. He wouldn't have stained the wood floor so much that we had to cover it with a dirty old rug. He wouldn't have killed her—he killed her but _I_ killed her, don't you see, _I_ killed her! He told me what to do but I didn't do it! I couldn't! I wasn't man enough! I was a coward! So it's my fault she's dead, oh god, it's all my fault that she's dead, and she'd only ever been good to me and she called me 'Bruce' because she knew how I hate 'Robert' and she didn't deserve to die, not like that! And I could've stopped it but I was too fucking scared so I didn't and now she's dead and I'm stuck like _this_ and I'm probably not even really sorry, I'm probably only thinking about myself and what I've lost and what I can never have, and I deserve to rot at the bottom of the ocean, and it's all my _fault_!"

What he told them was not what they were expecting, evidently.

Thor's face darkened. "No child should have to endure this." Then, as though thinking he'd said something particularly revealing, he lowered his eyes and stroked a finger absently along the design on his left vanguard.

The understanding look in Tony's eyes was now obvious, and he slung his arm around Bruce's shoulders, and said only, "I know."

"Bruce, you're way turned round," Clint shook his head, "My old man used to kick me around something good, because he thought that being deaf is like some horrible curse or something, or maybe because he washed all of his brains out with whiskey, but he was crazy. I mean, he was so sick in the head that he would've beat _anything_ around him. If it wasn't me, it would've been _someone_. I was just the most convenient target. It wasn't really about me. It was about him." He hopped over more gracefully than Bruce might have thought he could, and perched on the edge of the coffee table. "It's the same for you, man. He was just some big ol' bully looking for something to pick on. He had the problem, not you." And he tilted his head just so to the side and smiled kindly.

"Same for me," said Steve, "I was a scrawny sickly little kid, and the bullies ate that right up! I got beat up so much that I started to believe that it was because I was all weak and little. But in retrospect, there were plenty of people who never hurt me, and I've seen plenty of little kids who I've never wanted to beat up."

"Don't take this the wrong way, Bruce-honey," Natasha said, making Bruce a little worried because she normally didn't use affectionate names too often unless the matter was very serious, "But you've been hurt. You're…damaged, so to speak. But you know what? So are we. And if I could change things, and make it so that we all had happy childhoods, well of course I _would_. But I can't help but feel that we're stronger for it. That we're even tougher, since we've been fighting the odds before we could read. I mean it sucks, but. It kind of also doesn't suck as much as it could have. Because if we were really weak, then we wouldn't be sitting here right now."

"Oh," Bruce said. Tony's other arm had found its way around Bruce's neck, and he was now hugged closely to him.

"I wish it didn't happen. I wish we were all happy or normal or whatever. But I'm glad you're here. I'm really glad I have you guys."

And then the makeshift stray animals along with Robert-but-really-Bruce Banner the Not-so-stray Cat huddled together in their sorry excuse for under-a-bridge, warmed by the love that comes of understanding one another, and feeling perhaps for the first time that they had finally found a place where they truly belonged.


End file.
